


Water Songs

by Malapropian



Series: Forever a WIP [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Little Mermaid - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Differences, First Version, M/M, Marked Complete, Merman Stiles, Slow Build Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Unrequited Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3787510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His pod had warned him that the abnormal interest in Above would be his doom, but they didn't understand. They had never known the beauty of ships or sky. They had never seen the way his boy radiates with inner light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Songs

**Author's Note:**

> This story is heavily inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's _The Little Mermaid_ , and it's rather different from anything else I've posted. I hope you all enjoy what I've done here.
> 
> Thank you to [TriDom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom), [Laura](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sociallyawkwardfangirl21/pseuds/sociallyawkwardfangirl21), and [Cannibalinc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalinc/pseuds/cannibalinc) for being so enthusiastic about the concept and pre-reading. Especially, TriDom. Without your suggestions, this chapter would be about 1k shorter and not nearly as good.
> 
> **Additional warnings at the end notes**

 

In the beginning, all he knows is the bright world of warm, reef waters suitable for newborn calves. He has his mother and his father and his pod. His earliest memories are their joyous ululations vibrating the water around him. The feel of gentle emotions and images edging up to his nascent consciousness. The rush of bubbles escaping from gills. Tiny fish poking their heads from his mother’s hair. Her hair strewn with little shells and bits of bone – tokens of love from his father. The silver and turquoise glitter of his father’s scales in the the pale light filtering from Above.

 

There is no equivalent for his name in any human tongue. As yet, he is unaware of humans or that there even exists a way to communicate that is not the quicksilver flow of thoughts from one being to another.

 

His only knowledge comes from carefully curated experiences as mother’s wake pulls him alongside her. Gradually, his mind matures enough to form links with the rest of his family and pod. Afterwards, there is never a moment when he lacks the perfect fellowship with his pod. It buoys him through the small joys and pains of youth.

 

The scope of his world is vast, made of vibrant reefs and kelp forests. At the same time, it’s as tiny as a grain of sand. The constant presence of his parents’ love permeates his mental landscape, safely enclosing him. He knows nothing else and feels little curiosity. His fragile body matures slower than his mind, so they wait until he can withstand the temperature and pressure of their home seas. They spend several seasons in the tropical sea to allow their new calves an opportunity to learn and grow in a soft, safe territory. The greatest excitement he can expect comes from teasing the scuttling, pinching shellfish or trying to keep one as a pet, in his hair. Everything is simple, idyllic.

 

He knows no other life. He has no name. He doesn’t understand what he lacks. He can’t wish for the unknown.

 

* * *

 

The revelation of others, of _humans_ , is all due to an accident. The current overpowers him and his mother. They’re forced to skirt perilously close to the shoreline and risk being beached, but the risk also means that this is the closest he’s ever been to the possibility of seeing land dwellers.

 

For the first time in his life, he sees a ship in full sail with sailors on the deck and in the rigging. He is enraptured. Barring his mother, it’s the most beautiful sight of his short life. He bombards her mind with fast, darting thoughts and emotions tinged with elation.

 

He begins to wonder about life on land with two legs.

 

Though it’s a joyful affair when they reunite with the rest of the pod, he can’t help but daydream of being part of that world. He wants to know what those funny sounds mean; what it’s like to be Above with the sun and the Moon which controls all water; what life would be without his mottled, pale grey flesh, golden-green fins and tail. He’s filled with a sudden, endless want for unreachable things. If he knew what tears were, then he might wish for the ability to cry.

 

For the first time, the hard kernel of dissatisfaction settles in his chest.

 

* * *

 

He considers it another serendipitous moment to encounter a ship bearing a certain two-legger with hair like the blackest water and a face beautiful enough to tempt the most indifferent of seafolk into lingering Above. It is a life changing moment, in its purest form, when he first sees that happy, human boy running from his elder, the mischief clear on his face. The chase ends with the boy capering on the bowsprit before his minder drags him back to the safety of the deck.

 

Seafolk rarely find human noises appealing, and even he thinks them strange more often than not. Usually, the sailors are a raucous, angry lot, but this human’s sounds are different. It's as though sunshine takes audible form and pours from his open mouth. It’s nothing like the familiar songs he shares with his pod, but the boy’s pure joy in life is unmistakable even across species. Despite the cold waters, he’s warm and full of peace—adrift on a sea of golden light. Until now, only his mother’s songs have had such a heady effect.

 

He wants to always feel this way.

 

It’s the next warm season before he sees the same ship with the pretty silver pattern on the side. His heart speeds and thumps heavily, he can’t control his second lids and they flicker across his eyes in excitement. He spends the day lurking in the waves yearning for a glimpse of his boy, all the while avoiding the notice of sailors. Throwing caution to the winds, he swims as close as he dares, certain that he’ll be mistaken for a seal or a fish depending on which half of him is visible.

 

Finally, he smells the boy before he sees him. The object of his search seems to be rubbing a foul smelling, red mixture of seawater and something sour, fermented perhaps, across the deck under the watchful eye of his guardian. The boy appears cheerful, regardless of his pungent task, so he spends a pleasurable day observing the human go about his duties. As the boy singlemindedly scrubs the deck, he’s reminded of nothing so much as the symbiotic relationships of some fish. He finds himself strangely charmed at the resemblance his boy bears to the little fish that live on larger creatures and clean them in exchange for sustenance and safety. Anyone would be proud to have such a caring and dedicated mate.

 

He tunes out the incessant slap of waves on the hull, the wind in the rigging, and the sailors’ coarse voices. His entire awareness narrows to the sounds of the boy; the damp, pink skin; and the way the sun shines on his dark, blue-black hair. As he imagines a life where he could introduce the boy to his pod and live happily together, he grows careless and drifts into the ship’s wake, unmindful of the few dolphins cavorting nearby. Abruptly, he stills and refocuses his attention on his surroundings only to see the deep, blue eyes of the boy’s guardian staring straight into his. In a panic, he drops beneath the waves without a care for subtlety; he shouldn’t be close enough to the ship to ascertain the color of _anyone’s_ eyes – much less a human who isn’t his boy.

 

At dusk, he deems it safe and surfaces farther out from the ship. There’s no sign of his boy, and he curses the blue-eyed man for the lost time. He vows to find the boy again. The next time, he will brook no interruptions; it will be _perfect_. Perhaps, he’ll even attempt to touch the edge of the boy’s consciousness with his own.

 

It takes several false starts, but he gradually learns the rhythms of his boy’s journeys. Now he knows how to predict when and where to intercept the ship bearing his black-haired boy. He tracks the seasons and the current, knowing that when the weather warms the boy will come from the same direction as the sunrise. All that’s best in his life appears with the sun. At times, he fancies that his human must live there, or he wouldn’t possess such incandescence of spirit that it must burst forth from his flesh like a glowing corona.

 

When he can escape his pod, he spies on the boy in brief snatches of time – watches him grow tall and strong until one day he is a man, as human reckon such things. Humans age so quickly that without regular observation he would not have recognized his boy in this man except by the identical, joyous spirit. Even age can not dim the inner brilliance that sets him apart from his fellow two-leggers.

 

He does not hunger for food, not when he can fill his eyes with his dear human. He lives only to glut himself on the bliss of viewing his beloved as he conjures sweet fantasies of their future together. On this visit, his love dangles from the dubious safety of a rope sling as he marks over the silver pattern, making it bright once more. Over the years, he has seen this activity several times before, but none do it so well as his intended. It fills him with unalloyed pleasure that the other humans recognize his dear one’s unparalleled powers to bring light to the world and everything in it.

 

Lingering in the wake is too great a temptation to deny, but he is chary of allowing the blue-eyed human to spot him once more. As a compromise with his warring desires, he submerges himself until only his eyes and the top third of his head remain above the waves. Surely, this is precaution enough.

 

Camouflaged, he cautiously bobs along the surface, hair floating amidst the foam like strands of kelp the color of old blood. He is as near to invisible as possible without going Below. Though, his love has long since been hoisted up the side of the ship, he remains – hopeful for more short glimpses of his human’s life Above. He listens to the sailors making merry, ever alert to the unique sound of his beloved’s laughter. That night he stays far longer than usual. Stays until the Moon is high in the sky and most of the ship sleeps. The waters are calm, the stars are bright, and he has nowhere he would rather be.

 

A light from the taffrail interrupts his musings as the blue-eyed man sets a lantern on the rail, casting a glow on his face. The man peers unerringly at his position in the night-dark sea, and smiles with all his teeth showing. It should be impossible for the man to notice him with only the Moon and a lantern to aid his poor, human sight; yet here he stands, calling out to the water. Frozen with indecision, the opportunity to return to the depths slips away from him. With an awkward tilt of his head, he acknowledges the man who, in return, inclines his upper body toward the sea for a brief moment. He continues speaking in a low, melodious voice until the lantern burns low. When it flickers out, he skips something flat and shiny through the waves then turns away from the rail, his business seemingly finished.

 

The coin – for that’s what it is – comes to a stop half a tail’s length from him. Though shaken from the encounter, he scoops it up, attracted to the subtle glitter. He doesn’t know what it means that the blue-eyed man would blatantly announce awareness of an aquatic stalker. Perhaps he should fear what the blue-eyed man could do with this knowledge or wonder if the coin is a warning to stay away.

 

Warning or not, it comes far too late. He is bound and determined to win his mate. No two-leggers or seafolk will prevent him from claiming his prize. Frowning down at the coin, he clenches it in his hand. This will make a fine trophy and remind him of what’s at stake.

 

It’s past time that he adds some silver to his hair.

 

* * *

 

 The bond is a problem. Where the presence of his pod has been a comfort against the austere beauty of the deeps, he finds their regard intrusive and annoying—a cruel net that would subjugate him. No one can discover his unhappiness or secret wishes.

 

No one can learn of how he has risked himself against the greater predators in exchange for brief glimpses of the surface—of _him_. He’s old enough and strong enough to go long distances alone, so he ranges further and longer in search of ships. In search of _specific_ ships, if he’s honest. His parents would sing sharp, worried songs if they learn where he goes. His father already disapproves of the surface and would never venture near if he has a choice.

 

After catching hint of his curiosity and wonder, he sends terrifying images of seafolk dead or dying from strange weapons and caught in nets. His pod members show him over and over the grave dangers of discovery, of humans. Their thoughts take on the distinct flavor of bafflement when it becomes apparent how little he fears two-leggers or their ships. They question his interest in the land dwellers, and through complex emotional interplay they impress upon him the short and brutish nature of human life. All men must die, but those born of the sea are as eternal as the waves.

 

In the end, their intervention only increases his fervor. If human lives are so short and brutish, then he has no time to waste. In spite of the possibility of death or dismemberment, the perverse longing to go Above fills his every thought. He dreams of living there and sharing his thoughts with one of those strange upright creatures. Some day he wants to sing heart songs and twine his fins around his Only One. His Love.

 

He swims closer each time he goes Above to watch. It’s only recently that he’s attempted to brush small emotions and images against his young man’s mind, but he receives nothing in return.

 

The fear that his intended cannot enter communion—that his love’s mind will be forever shut against his thoughts—brings about the best and worst day of his life.

 

* * *

 

The day follows his years old routine, like all the other days of the warm season. He has no reason to expect a storm. He has no concept of what a severe storm _means_ for the surface when he can simply dive to safety. Even after all this time, he doesn’t know about the terrible storms that change the ocean beds or the giant waves capable of destroying ships and cities.

 

All he knows is that his entire world stops when he sees his intended fall into the sea. He’s moving before he even realizes. _This_ is the purpose for his form, for his speed, for his strength. He can save his poor, finless love from dying here.

 

He slides through the churning waves like an eel, almost as though the power of his will propels him through the rain lashed sea and darkness. He easily bears the weight of the unconscious human, and tucks him under one arm as he struggles to keep him above water. Though he’s never been there, he swims for the dubious safety of dry land.

 

The way is long, and he’s forced to stop several times to help his human expel water. Even after all of the time he spends watching, it’s still strange to see proof that humans can’t exist under the water. It’s lucky for both of them that he finds the cove when he does, for he’s almost at the end of his endurance. The way seems barred by rocks, so with an awkward gasp, he sucks in unnecessary air before fastening his mouth over the man’s; then he dives.

 

In his natural habitat, the human’s lips are soft against his cool flesh, but touching faces is still strange and somewhat off-putting. His human’s skin is covered in prickly needle-stalks like a sea urchin, but he’s seen other humans touch faces in this manner even when no one is near death. Perhaps it’s how those who can not freely share their innermost selves show affection.

 

Safely in the shallows, he casts a critical eye over the beach. He understands nothing of what humans need to be healthy or happy, but they seem to dislike cold and wet. With slow, careful movements he heaves himself, his form now cumbersome and ungainly, and the man on the damp sand and struggles to pull them both above the waterline. When they’re far enough from the water to make him uneasy, he turns to his human for a distraction.

 

This is the closest he’s come to the one he loves, and he is fascinated by the strangeness of human bodies. Judging from their outer shells, humans have next to nothing in common with his kind. They’re all flesh and fur, lacking webbing or spines, and unable to live beneath the waves. This human should be hideous to him. There should be nothing to inspire his heart songs. He should not want to fan his fins in a display of virility or bring down dangerous prey in a reckless display of skill.

 

_But he does._

 

Oh, how he wishes to do all of that and more. Instead, he takes that chilled, starfish shaped appendage and click-trills. It’s quiet, then builds in volume until he bursts into full throated warbling of the song he began to compose at first sight of his love. When the very image of the boy struck him through the heart like the strange, long weapons used on their brother whales.

 

He sings of the moment his world expanded, when he first sees a ship, when he first sees _him_ and knows love. He sings of all he would sacrifice to have a life on land. To grow old together. To die together. All the while, he pushes images of his life and love at the closed mind of his beloved until his voice falters. Though every sound is pain, he continues in the hope that the man will awaken and open eyes the same color as the finest algae. Still, the man does not wake even as dawn washes the beach in soft light.

 

He waits with his loved one, uncaring that he’s allowing himself to dry out, forming painful cracks along his fins and gills. Unable to continue, he settles for mournful clicks as he scoops the rising sea water over the most painful spots, and into his mouth. It’s enough to refresh him for a final song before he returns to the ocean, so he hums a farewell softly into his ear.

 

It’s almost time for him to leave, but he can’t abandon his dearest love without a token of his regard. He glances at the surrounding beach, hoping for something suitably fine; yet there is nothing. His lids flicker in agitated thought before he unties a bright bit of hollow, blue coral – worn smooth by its time as a hair ornament – and threads it onto one of the man’s unwebbed, pink appendages to ensure its safekeeping. Satisfied with his offering, he presses his lips to that strange prickly fur and wriggles his way down to the tide just as green eyes flutter open and go wide. He’s already half submerged by the waves when the man stretches out his hand and speaks something into the wind. He smiles once at his beloved, grateful for this stolen moment, and allows the water to take him.

 

From now on, nothing will ever be the same.

 

* * *

 

As he nears their nesting grounds, horror and panic assault him through the bond. Because of his secret trips, he’s grown accustomed to shoving the link to the pod and his parents into the farthest corner of his awareness, but proximity is stronger than his efforts and something is _wrong_. He’s long minutes away, but the water seethes from the intensity of their sorrow.

 

There’s no mistaking the mourning songs for a dead pod member. Frantically, he feels the different threads, searching for who’s missing.

 

_No._

 

It’s not possible. _His mother can’t be gone._

 

She can, and she is. He races the rest of the way there, knowing that it’s too late. It won’t change the fact that there’s a gaping hole in the tightly woven bonds where he should still feel her. When he finally draws close enough to see his father entwined with her broken body, his heart stutters and beats out of time. Although he is worn from singing and swimming all night, he adds his shaky voice to the chorus of pain. What else can he do?

 

They spend three cycles of the tide in unceasing song. At the end of the third cycle, it is only him and his father harmonizing. Despite the tuneless background drone of the other, the dirge is flat, empty without her voice to fill the gaps between them. Her farewell chorus is nothing like others he’s heard. There is no joy, no quiet acceptance, or peace. There is only the agony of survival. The horror of a life cut short. The expectation of a hollow life for a bereft father and son.

 

He curses the near-immortality of his kind. He will live long enough to forget his mother’s hair teeming with fish, her singing, her scales glittering gold in the seafoam… all of it gone, but he will die before he allows himself to forget the warm assurance of her love enfolding him.

 

As the lament trails into silence, his father releases the corpse, and he sees her, unobscured. A long, jagged object impales her, protruding in her belly. It is something from Above. The only wood they see here is algae covered and rotting. In the ocean, no wood remains so smooth or polished for very long.

 

He feels sick, crushed. His mother has no love for Above, no reason to venture there. No reason except him. Tentatively he sends a seeking tendril of thought to brush against the muted link to his father’s, but the way is closed to him. A dark idea latches on to his mind, but he has no opportunity to consider it, yet.

 

Exhausted, they complete a descant of appropriate length and tone. Her soul is safely sung out with the tide; all that’s left is her shell. It is the sacred duty of her mate and children to prepare her body for the worms.

 

Reverentially, his father cradles her and tugs the wooden spike free from her body. With a steadiness that belies his agony, his father grips the bone knife and slices off her hair as close to the scalp as possible. As his father wraps the length of her body in strips of kelp and flat rocks, he takes the hair from him, separating and plaiting it to form two long ropes. He offers one to his father so they may adorn each other, tightly fastening the ropes where flesh meets scale. The sharp shells and bones woven into her hair jab at their sensitive underbellies. Trickles of blood begin to cloud the water around them, but they need fear no creature while the pod serves as an honor guard against predators.

 

In ones and twos, luminous fish arrive to form a school, eerie in its perfect stillness. No one can say how the fish always know when to appear, but all lore recognizes them as neutral psychopomps. For time immemorial, they have aided the death rites by guiding and lighting the way to the closest whale fall. When his father picks up her shrouded body, that will be the sign to continue their pilgrimage to the bone reef.

 

Lost to sorrow, they descend into murky darkness, towards the seamount—the resting place of their whale brethren, and the final barrier before the abyss. They swim efficiently, gills working double time, to compensate for the conditions of these strange, dark waters. His kind are not made to survive at this depth and cannot linger without suffering extreme pain, erratic moods, memory loss, and eventual death. The only reason important enough to bring them here is the bone reef.

 

For as long as the lighted fish have appeared, they’ve come to this place to lay their dead in peace. His mother is wrapped and weighted to remain within the freshest whale fall. Here her body will nourish eager parasites, armored shellfish, and bone devourers until her mortal shell returns to the sea as energy.

 

Their guide fish position themselves to cast a dimly illuminated circle around the group. There is exactly enough light for them to see the scavengers converge on her corpse, and then she falls out of the circle’s range. As he watches the black space where he know her body has landed, the wild desire to steal her away nearly overwhelms him. This is all a horrible mistake. She will break free from her bonds and laugh again. Perhaps he twitches forward or cries out. He has no consciousness of either, but his father catches him and holds him close, warbling heartbroken.

 

They keen together as the pod surrounds them, supporting this ultimate dirge. Finally, the luminous fish abandon them, signalling that they must leave or risk ill-effects.

 

Slowly, they make their ascent in the same manner they enter the world: in darkness and pain—a desperate wail on their lips.

 

Immediately after returning, he and his father remove the bloody ropes from around their waists and knot the plaits at the base of their own hair. Her hair will trail behind them, a physical embodiment of their grief.

 

Depending on the care they take in preserving the reminder, it can survive until their deaths. Others allow the plait to shorten and fall out naturally, removing it completely. Still others, he knows, save the final tiny remnants to join shells, bones, and pearls as decoration. According to lore, it represents the mourning period. While he nurtures his grief, the plait and it’s ornaments will remain pristine. One day, he will release his sadness and the plait with it.

 

Horror fills him at the thought of living so long without her. He’s scarcely more than a calf with a mere fifty warm seasons under his fins. Even if he lives longer than any other of his kind, doomed to survive generation after generation of his descendants. He can’t imagine choosing to let go of the last part of his mother.

 

Before he can drop into an exhausted slumber, his father draws him away from the others to present him with his mother’s bequest. The last mental message from her dying consciousness. They pass messages like this all the time, but the bequest is special. Numbly, he accepts the memory, wrapped in several layers of surface emotions he recognizes as his father’s. He honestly had not dared to hope that he would receive this from her.

 

It rests lightly at the barriers of his thought, ready to unfold itself at the slightest touch. He doesn’t know if he can bear to confirm his suspicion that she hates him. Hates him for being at the surface to follow his human like a barnacle. His emotions surge, and the bubble bursts, overwhelming his mind with the thought-memory-feeling.

 

His father is holding him and trilling weakly, but his eyes, when he catches them, are implacable, almost cold. He _knows_. The bequest left by his mate prevents him from meeting his child’s eyes. It dooms him to condemn a son for his unwitting role in leading his mother to her death. She had no love or hate for humans and no reason to be Above except worry for her child’s safety. Everything that’s happened—it’s all his fault.

 

He must find a way fix this.

 

* * *

 

Interactions with his father become awkward and stilted in the wake of their personalized bequests. His father’s mind stays distant and tightly shut from his gentle attempts at sharing. He understands.

 

How can he want to open his mind to his mate’s murderer? How can he feel anything but hate for him?

 

After his mother’s death, even Above and his beloved lose their savor. Oh, he yearns to see his intended one with all of his heart—yearns for the comfort of being near the one he loves most, but to abandon his father to grief? Unthinkable! It would make him the lowest worm if he allows himself the solace of Above.

 

He despairs of finding a solution, until he’s drawn into an exchange about the Sea Witch. Nobody is certain of her powers or nature. The rumours say that she is kind and cruel in equal measure – able to transform creatures, bring back the dead, and reverse the tides.

 

Of the three, he only cares for one.

 

With hope rekindled, the decision to abandon the pod comes easily. He won’t be missed. He knows his father will be grateful not to see his face. He will find the Sea Witch and make a bargain for his mother’s return. Even if it means his life, the price would be well-spent if it brings the joy back to his father’s life.

 

He shoves the plans down into a corner of his mind, hidden under layers of sadness. No one dares to disturb his grieving process, so his scheme remains undiscovered. When his pod sleeps peacefully, he glides to his father and, for a moment, he falters in his conviction. Still, he brings up his knife and slices off a lock of hair. With a few dexterous twists he combines the sandy white strands of his father with the darkness of his mother’s braid. The only way they can be together now.

 

Although he’s quickly losing the tide, he lingers by his father’s side wondering if this is yet another mistake. But mistake or not, he must press on with the plan or accept the death of his mother and the loss of his father’s support.

 

Perhaps this is the most cruel and craven act of his life, but he builds the layers of pain, guilt, and determination into a pearl. He wraps that pearl in a protective shell of love and happy memories, drops it atop the still surface of his father’s sleeping mind, and flees for warmer waters.

 

He means it as a farewell—an explanation; yet, in his heart, he feels a grim surety that it will serve as his own bequest.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone still wondering about specifics, the next chapter will include more about Stiles' physical appearance as a mermaid.
> 
>  
> 
> **Additional warnings:**
> 
>  
> 
> Stiles stalks Derek and becomes rather obsessed with him. He also kisses Derek while he is unconscious. 
> 
> I kill Claudia, and go into some detail about mermaid funerary practices.
> 
>  
> 
> Please let me know if you noticed any mistakes or have concerns. Thanks for reading!


End file.
